At Five in the Morning, the House Heard What They Meant to Bury

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Because it affects the case, and because she may ask to communicate through counsel.”

“I don’t want to hear an apology.”

“She may not offer one.”

“That sounds like Nicole.”

He almost smiled.

Nicole surrendered passwords to two cloud accounts and identified the private group members. She admitted that after the police arrived, Helen ordered her to delete the original stream and post messages claiming I had attacked Trent.

The video had automatically cached on Nicole’s phone. She attempted to erase it, but forensic examiners recovered fragments and account records consistent with Paige’s screen recording.

More important, Nicole produced text messages from the night before.

Helen: We need her signature before we go.

Nicole: What if she refuses again?

Helen: Then we document the behavior.

Nicole: Like an intervention?

Helen: Exactly.

Trent: She’ll sign.

Richard: No marks where people see.

The last message was sent at 11:48 p.m.

Richard later claimed it referred to avoiding damage to the loan documents.

Even his lawyer had difficulty saying that with a straight face.

The prosecutor added charges. The defense requested more time. The preliminary hearing was postponed twice.

My pregnancy did not pause for the court calendar.

At thirty weeks, I developed contractions during a meeting with Nora. The hospital stopped them with fluids and medication. The obstetrician ordered me to reduce work again.

I blamed the legal case.

Then I blamed Trent.

Then I blamed myself for returning to work, returning to the house, answering Nicole’s voicemail, reading comments, eating too little, sleeping badly.

The doctor told me sometimes contractions happened without a single clean cause.

I disliked her for refusing to give me someone to punish.

Alex came to the hospital carrying a bag that contained three T-shirts, a phone charger, and a can of tuna.

“Why tuna?”

“I grabbed things.”

“You grabbed a can.”

“It has protein.”

“No opener.”

He looked into the bag. “That’s poor planning.”

I laughed until the contraction monitor shifted.

He sat beside the bed.

After a while, he said, “I’m moving.”

“Where?”

“Closer.”

“To me?”

“To work.”

“You work in the other direction.”

He stared at the television, which was showing a home-renovation program with the sound off.

“Alex.”

“The lease is up.”

“In five months.”

“You know too much about my lease.”

“You sent it to me because you thought the landlord was cheating you on parking.”

“He was.”

“You are not moving into my neighborhood.”

He rubbed his jaw. “I didn’t say I was.”

“You were about to rent the place on Cedar.”

His eyes narrowed. “How do you know about Cedar?”

“Nora’s investigator is very thorough.”

“That is not what investigators are for.”

“Don’t move because of me.”

“I’m not.”

“Say you aren’t worried I’ll be murdered if you live twenty minutes away.”

He did not answer.

I turned toward the wall.

The quiet lasted long enough for a nurse to enter, check the monitors, and leave again.

Finally Alex said, “I left you once.”

I looked back.

He picked up the tuna can and rolled it between his palms.

“When I enlisted. Mom was sick, and you were sixteen, and I left because I couldn’t stand the house. I told myself you had friends. Teachers. Aunt Celia.”

“I did.”

“You took care of Mom.”

“We both did.”

“No. You did the last year.”

Our mother’s illness had reduced the world to pill bottles, laundry, and the sound of oxygen flowing through clear tubes. Alex called from bases in other states. I told him she was fine until she was not.

“You were twenty-one,” I said.

“So?”

“So you were allowed to be bad at things.”

He looked at me then.

“I thought if I was close enough this time, it would balance something.”

“It won’t.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He set the tuna on the table. “Sometimes.”

I reached for his hand.

It was not forgiveness. It was not necessary to name everything.

The contractions stopped before morning.

At the next case meeting, Feld outlined a possible negotiated resolution. Trent’s attorney had discussed a plea to multiple felony offenses in exchange for dismissal of other counts. Helen and Richard might enter separate pleas. Nicole’s cooperation could reduce her exposure substantially.

Nothing was final.

“If there’s a plea, do I testify?” I asked.

“Possibly at sentencing. Not at trial.”

“How much time would he get?”

Feld gave a range broad enough to feel meaningless.

“And Helen?”

“Likely less, if convicted or if she pleads.”

“She told him to do it.”

“The law distinguishes conduct and levels of participation.”

“My daughter doesn’t.”

Feld waited.

I pressed my palm beneath June’s foot. “Sorry.”

“You do not have to apologize to me.”

“What do you need from me?”

“A decision about whether you are willing to testify if negotiations fail.”

Nora had accompanied me. She remained silent.

Feld continued. “The defense has indicated they will challenge your credibility aggressively. They may introduce messages in which you apologized to Trent after previous incidents. They may ask about therapy, medication, marital arguments, and statements you made to friends.”

“I haven’t taken psychiatric medication.”

“They have a pharmacy record for an anti-anxiety prescription from two years ago.”

“I took it for flying.”

“I’m telling you what they may do, not what is fair.”

“What happens if I say no?”

“The case continues. We use other evidence. But your testimony matters.”

The room’s air conditioner clicked on.

I watched a corner of the legal pad curl upward beneath Nora’s hand.

“I need to think.”

“Of course.”

Outside, Nora and I sat on a bench near the courthouse fountain. A maintenance worker skimmed leaves from the water. Cars passed. Someone across the plaza dropped a folder and chased papers through the wind.

“What would you do?” I asked.

Nora shook her head. “No.”

“You give opinions all day.”

“I give legal advice. This is not only legal.”

“I want it over.”